Lady of Casterly Rock
by Smritz
Summary: AU. The only thing keeping young Cersei Lannister sane had been her twin brother, Jaime, but now that he was dead, killed in a riding accident of all things, what was keeping her tied to Casterly Rock?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Disclaimer: I do not own A Song Of Ice And Fire. This applies for all chapters.

Chapter 1

For as long as she could remember, there had always been two of them in front of that mirror.

Tall blond reflections, it had once been the best part of the day, slowly drinking into their mutual perfection, their identical looks. Cersei and Jaime had always been a package deal. Cersei couldn't remember a single moment they had spent apart, not even in their dreams.

Their late mother had told them that they had come into the world together, Jaime's tiny hand gripping Cersei's foot as the midwife pulled them out. She loved it when he brought that up in bed, their sweaty skin rubbing against each other as he pulled at her foot, laughing breathily. "I have always been a step behind you, Cersei." He would joke as she screamed with laughter. "Everyone knows that."

The worst part was, everyone did know that. Cersei was genuinely one step before her brother in every field. Reading, writing, horse-riding, politics, even just raw courage. She was the one brave enough to touch the Lannister lions her lord father had brought home one day from a hunt. She was the one smart enough to understand her father's political position and worries. She was graceful, beautiful and regal. She was courageous, fierce and strong. Jaime was a weakling compared to her, and yet, she was always the one feeling jealous.

Something went wrong with her, after her breasts began to grow, after her maids began forcing her into dresses tying her shiny blond hair back so she was forced to let it grow in. Jaime became the confident one, with the swagger and the charm. He started to overtake her, falling in step with her until she stumbled and he went on forward.

He would hold up a shining sword and scream a war cry to his men with his hair streaming behind him while she would lay back on her bed with her hands on her breasts, trying to squeeze them back into her body.

But why was she even thinking these thoughts now? None of it mattered anymore.

None of it mattered with only one reflection staring back at her, the spot beside her empty, her bed cold and smelling like mothballs instead of sweat. Her brother's sword was strapped to his waist as he waited with stones over his eyes in the cold marble of the Sept of Casterly Rock.

It had been at least a month since the fifteen-year-old had left her room. She had refused to attend the burial of her twin brother. She was still angry with him, after all. She knew that he was stupid, but she had not known the extent to which he would risk his life for the worst of reasons.

Her maidservants, obviously forced into it by her brother, Tyrion, had sat beside her bed and quietly asked her if she needed anything, if she was feeling all right, if she blamed anyone for the death. She hoped that the vases she had thrown at their faces had broken their noses. She had definitely seen the one in the faded lavender bleed.

What exactly did Tyrion expect her to be feeling? It was obvious that she was miserable. Or was she?

Surprisingly, when she thought about it, the main feeling behind the twinge in her heart was not misery. It was anger. It was Jaime's stupidity that got him killed. If only they had switched places, if Cersei had been the one practicing her archery as Jaime sewed in his bedroom, they would both be alive.

A riding accident, they said. He had been out hunting with the sons of the banner men and Tyrion when he hit his head on a tree branch. The loss of balance made his horse buck and throw him into the air. He snapped his neck when he fell. Tyrion gave them the whole story, with all the details, and Cersei had been tempted to blame him for the whole tragedy. She would have, just as she blamed him for her mother's death, but when she looked at the grief-stricken dwarf and his ugly face soaked in tears, she knew he would never harm his beloved brother. It was only Jaime who could harm himself. Jaime, and his incompetence. If he had been born the girl and she the boy, they would both be alive.

Cersei sat up in bed as her door inched open. A maidservant poked her head in, dressed in pale brown, her dark hair bundled up over her head in a style very similar to what Cersei had been wearing one month ago. Empty flattery, this reeked of Tyrion. She briefly wondered why the dwarf was so concerned with her mental well-being, but she let it pass.

"Milady, I have been ordered by-"

"Tyrion, I presume? You have been ordered to ask me how I am feeling."

The poor damsel nodded helplessly, wringing her hands in front of her. She was quite pretty, worthy of being one of her handmaids, though she did not know her lineage. Cersei glared at the woman for a long while, making her fidget and squirm. She was glad she still had the power to do that, even after all of this grief.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me?"

The maidservant swallowed, eyeing the brass cup that was already in Cersei's hands. She stuttered for a second and fell silent, her face white with fear.

Cersei sighed. "This is what Tyrion gets for meddling in affairs that are not his." She nearly chucked the cup at the woman filled a healthy dose of loathing, but stilled her hand when the woman raised her head to meet her eyes again.

"You have not left your bedroom in one month, Lady Cersei. Your Lord brother misses his brother, it is natural that he would try his best to look after his sister. Especially when his sister resembles the late Lord Jaime so well. These are very much Lord Tyrion's affairs, milady."

The maidservant was stammering and pale, but Cersei had been reduced to silence. Neither of the women made a sound. Cersei felt herself getting angry, but the anger dissipated easily. She had spent one month getting angry at nothing, throwing things around and having the servants clean them up. She had spent a month in bed for her idiotic twin.

An idea struck her, an idea that would never have crossed her mind if she hadn't already been nearly mad with grief. Her smile began to grow back. The maidservant did not take that as a good sign, inching towards the door.

"Where is my Lord father at this time?" Cersei asked flippantly, swinging her legs off of the bed, arranging her bedclothes neatly around her, running her fingers through her messy hair.

The maidservant eyed her suspiciously. "Lord Tywin is in King's Landing, milady. He has resumed his duty as Hand of the King."

Her grin widened. Her smiles always looked so innocent to someone who didn't know her, but the maidservant had obviously been warned about this. She clasped her hands in front of herself nervously as Cersei flounced over to her dressing chest, flinging it open and digging through it.

"Milady? May I…assist you?"

Cersei laughed her breathy laugh, making the other woman flinch. "Of course. Find me a pair of Jaime's breeches from in here. I'm sure they're in there somewhere."

The maidservant complied, kneeling beside her and digging through the mounds of satin. "May I…inquire why we are looking for the late Lord's breeches, milady?"

Cersei laughed again. "Talkative one, aren't you? But you'll like this answer. We are finally giving Lord Tyrion what he wants."

The maidservant sat up, her face a picture of childish glee. "You're going to leave your room, milady?"

Cersei shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm not leaving this room." The maidservant looked puzzled until Cersei threw back her head and laughed.

"I'm never leaving this room. But Jaime will."

.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hello again! Here comes chapter 2, from a fresh new perspective. Also, after this update, I will update on a weekly basis, because apparently that is the update frequency most of you enjoy XD

Chapter 2

Tyrion missed his brother, yes. He did want him back. He wanted him back every day. Jaime was Tyrion's only friend in the world, the only person he could trust. When his cousins bullied him, or the banner men roughed him around, Jaime was the one who would save him. Tyrion would be eternally grateful to his older brother.

It had only been one month since his death, and after all those discarded pillows soaked in tears, the eleven year old just was not emotionally ready for this.

It was a sunny day, and Tyrion had been reading under the shade of the oak tree when he saw a familiar lithe figure bound up to the stables, pointing a delicate finger obstinately at the brown stallion that stood in the place of Jaime's dead white. Dressed in old breeches that outlined her calves and a tunic that accentuated her delicate curves, she looked so much like Jaime that the dwarf gasped, covering his mouth with his large hand.

Her hair was bundled on top of her head, covered by a felt cap. She wore no jewelry, no flowing garments, and her breasts looked much smaller, as if she had bound them with tight cloth. He began to blush, hiding his shaking hands under himself.

He could just pretend that she was Jaime, if he hadn't known her. He could have pretended that his brother was back. God knew that was what Cersei wanted them to pretend.

The stable-hand was complying with her, seemingly terrified of her expression. Tyrion knew how that felt. Cersei was a fierce woman. He glanced at the entrance of the stable, where the unharmed Elena stood. She met his eyes and shook her head mournfully.

She had snapped, then. He knew that this was a possibility. Cersei and Jaime had been closer than siblings had any right to be. It was almost obvious that his death would push her over the edge.

Tyrion put his book down and made his way to the stable. Nobody else had the right to stop her, with their Lord Father in King's Landing. Only Tyrion, the last male heir to Casterly Rock, could order her to go back inside.

But his legs were short. He waddled as fast as he could to the stables, but Cersei was already seated comfortably on what should have been Jaime's stallion, legs on either side of the horse as a man would sit. She glanced at him with a smirk, with Jaime's smirk, and smacked the horse into a gallop in seconds. Tyrion was left in the dust, coughing at the stable-hand to force her to stop.

The boy, two-and-twenty years old at most, shrugged, grinning. Tyrion almost snarled. He wasn't afraid of her, then. The stable-hand was besotted with the fiery woman. They had been flirting. Oh, if he had been his father's favourite son he would have told the Warden of the West everything. In fact, he was of a mind to tell him about this nonsense anyway, despite the fact that his father would likely believe Cersei over him.

He gestured for the stable-hand to prepare his own horse with his dwarf-friendly saddle so that he could go after her. He was her only brother now, after all. It would be careless of him to allow her to get hurt in the same place Jaime had died.

As he hoisted himself up with the stable-hand's help, Elena came up to his saddle and placed her hand on the horse's neck. "Milord, she is going to the place her brother died. She told me that she wants to ride how he had when he died. She wants to…show that she is better than him."

That was all Tyrion needed to hear. He shot off on his horse, his dwarf-customised apparatus trembling as he followed Cersei. He could not let her kill herself the way his brother had died. His father would blame him, and worse, he would blame himself. He did not love Cersei, and she loathed him, but he could not let another sibling die.

He saw her tiny figure grasping the reins of the horse, and his memories took him back to that fateful day a month ago, surrounded by banner men, with Jaime in the lead laughing at a joke. They were only paces away. The tree branch hadn't been cut, they had been too distracted to cut it, and it had been forgotten.

He could see it now, brown and thick, and remembered his brother's head snapping back, his thin body pushed off of his bucking horse, flying in the air, almost angelic.

"Cersei!" He screamed. "Watch out!"

But he didn't have to. When the branch began to pass over Cersei's horse, she ducked, pressing flat against its neck, and swung back up like a spring. The air filled with her cackling laughter as she pulled her stallion to a halt. Tyrion did the same, on the other side of the branch, and stared her down. She hopped gracefully off of her horse and walked up to him, snickering.

"I was always better than him."

Tyrion shook his head, snarling. The flashbacks of Jaime's death still haunted him. Why did Cersei have to look so much like him? "Cersei, you goddamned fool. What did you prove, doing this? You already know exactly where the branch is. Ducking didn't prove anything."

Cersei gave him a haughty look, too Cersei-like for her Jaime disguise. "I was meant to have been born the son. I would have been a great son, much better than Jaime ever was."

"But you were not born a son. You were born Cersei, Lady of Casterly Rock. Now stop this foolishness, let's go back to-"

"What, are you feeling threatened, dwarf? Father would be glad to pass the Rock over to anyone but you. I can pretend to be Jaime for the rest of my life. Look at me! I am a better son than either of you ever were. Father will see that, and he will accept me. I know him."

"You know nothing. Now…Cersei, come back here!" But she was gone already, mounting her stallion like it was nothing and galloping off into the forest. He knew her, she would take the detour back to the stables, making it there before him. He didn't know what she was up to, but it was trouble.

Tyrion sighed. She was right. She would have made a great son. Cersei was not meant to sew by the fireplace.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I couldn't help it! I just HAD to update. This story is so clear in my head. Anyway, here you go, the nice, short chapter 3.

Chapter 3

Cersei sat by the fireplace with her sewing on her lap, deep in thought. Her father was returning to the Westerlands. He said it was to secure a deal with the Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane, but rumour had it that the Hand had had a falling out with the Mad King Aerys, which was why he was taking a break from his duties.

This was the perfect time to show him what she was worth. He would be angry, as he always was when he fought with his obstinate King, and seeing his Jaime return would make him so happy that he would accept her. Maybe he would let her take lessons in strategy, the ones Jaime used to be forced to attend. The boy had had to be forced to do everything, as if he didn't understand how lucky he was.

It had been three months since her decision to become a boy, and the residents of Casterly Rock were used to her now. She was sure they gossiped behind her back when she took her place at the archery station, or when she swung her shortsword at the practice dummies, but nobody protested anymore.

The last person to call her in for a little chat was her uncle, Kevan, who had been put in charge of the Rock by her father when he left to resume duties after Jaime's funeral. Kevan had sat her down at her knee and attempted to change her mind, but she knew the man too well. He was too gentle to force her to wear a dress, and too wary of her father to inform him about how she was acting. As long as Kevan was in charge of the Rock, she would be allowed to do as she pleased.

That would change tomorrow. Her father would return, and demand to see her. She would run to him in her breeches, which were getting uncomfortably scuffed considering she only had the three pairs she managed to snitch from Jaime's old collection, grab him in a hug and offer to show off her newly acquired sword fighting skills.

She had to admit, she would never be as good as Jaime at sword fighting. In fact, as she surveyed her needlework by the firelight, she was better at sewing than she ever would be at swinging a weapon. She wished she lived in a world where she could do both, but once she picked up where Jaime had left off, she can't go back. She would be Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West. Nobody deserved the title as much as she does. She wanted to fight for her father on the battlefield, not wait in the parlour room with her wine and company.

She put her sewing down and stared into the yellow-orange flames flickering in the dark room. In a few hours, she would cease to be Cersei Lannister, Lady of Casterly Rock. She was sure of it. Jaime would be born again, and Cersei buried in his place

It was what she wanted, so why did the thought of it make her so sad?


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: And the confrontation you were all waiting for! Tywin Lannister comes to town.

Chapter 4

Tyrion knew it would go badly, but he didn't quite expect this.

He thought he had known the height, breadth and width of his father's anger. He was the imperfect dwarf son who had killed his wife, after all. He had felt the flames in his eyes, the ice in his voice, the burn of his indifference and the chill of his spite. But he had never felt the knife's edge at his throat, ready to draw blood. His father was always angry with Tyrion, but he had never been furious.

The regal man stood up straight, his horse being stabled as he waited, crimson cape fluttering behind him as he marched up to idiotic little Cersei in her boy's clothes, grabbing her upper arm firmly. Tyrion almost gasped. His father never touched people. He was holding his sister's arm too high for her to walk in a dignified manner, hopping behind the older man as she yelped her protests.

The girl had angry tears in her eyes, but she refused to let them spill, instead bargaining with her father as he marched across the courtyard. The lord was heading upstairs, towards his official chambers. Tyrion was glad he wasn't heading to his personal chambers. The dwarf had already drilled a spy-hole into the door of the office, so it would be easy to listen in.

Tywin turned around abruptly on reaching the door, looking straight at Tyrion, who stumbled to a halt, turning white with terror. His father's eyes were bloodshot and looked homicidal. His feelings made sense, the man was fragile ever since his favourite son and heir died, but it was frightening to see in person. Tyrion hoped he didn't look half as afraid as he felt.

"Go back downstairs." The Hand of the King commanded. Tyrion was quick to follow, waddling down the steps until he heard the door close and latch. He then immediately hopped back upstairs to lean his oversized head against the spy-hole. There was some shifting, and a chair being dragged.

Cersei screamed.

Tyrion almost fell over in shock at the shrillness of the scream. He looked around, and noticed a maidservant on the same floor looking over at the dwarf, startled. She was quick to continue on as if she had heard nothing, her face a shade paler.

"Father!" Cersei shouted, indignant. Tyrion felt a touch relieved. Cersei was being dramatic, which meant Tywin had not done anything serious. But the sharp sound of a slap ringing in the air made him question that. Tywin did not hit people physically. He was strictly a man of words, a man with a regal aura and the admiration of everyone in the room. He did not need to hit people. Jaime's death must have hurt the unemotional lord harder than he thought it had.

"Get to your senses, girl." The lord said smoothly. His voice never changed, no matter how angry he was. He saved his shouting for the most dramatic moments. "No daughter of mine goes around wearing their dead brother's clothes. Go wear something appropriate and return. We have important matters to discuss."

"No! Father, Jaime's gone. You need a new heir. I can be that! I look just like Jaime-"

"You are a lady. Not only that, you are a Lannister. Lannisters do not lose their minds, Cersei."

He could just imagine Cersei's absolute shock. "What? I haven't lost my mind. I am perfectly capable of being a lord, father, if you just give me a chance-"

"Cersei."

"Your only other option is Tyrion, father! Tyrion!"

"I do not want to hear another word. You are changing back to your dresses. I have raised you better than this."

"The ladies of Bear Island are just like men. They learn strategy, swordfighting, everything. It's the same for the princesses of Dorne!"

Tywin snarled. "You are not a Dornish woman. You are a Lannister of the Rock, and you will behave like one."

She was starting to get desperate. "But I am good at swordfighting, father! I can shoot, too, and ride ten times better than Jaime ever could-"

 _"Enough,_ Cersei! I have had enough of your tantrums. Locked up in your room for a month, and, according to Kevan, dressing up like Jaime for the past three months to prove some godforsaken point, I have had it. You are marrying the crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen in ten days. I have fixed it with His Grace. I expect your full cooperation."

A moment of silence. Cersei was likely gaping like a fish.

Finally, her voice rang out. "I am not marrying anybody. I am not a broodmare you can just sell to the highest bidder, I am a Lannister."

"You are marrying Rhaegar Targaryen, or you will no longer be a Lannister."

Cersei was silent. Tyrion waited for the explosion that was no doubt imminent, but it never came. Instead, he felt the door shift as it began to open. He got to his feet as fast as he could and shifted out of sight of the Hand as Cersei ran out of the room in tears.

Tyrion waddled downstairs as fast as he could, hitting the courtyard before turning back to see if his father had emerged from his room yet. He didn't emerge. He was likely writing letters. There was a wedding to plan, after all.

Tyrion squatted on the floor, thinking. His father was always so unemotional, it made sense that he would grow impatient with Cersei's antics.

But there was a niggling feeling in Tyrion's heart that he had witnessed something wrong. It told him that if he let this happen, it would lead to nothing good. Cersei was not father. She was not balanced or unemotional. Everyone knew how close Cersei and Jaime were. Marrying Rhaegar would not only replace Jaime in her bed but would force her to become a true Lady, and eventually Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Nothing good was going to come of that.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Tyrion was the last person she thought would help her.

Cersei had been in her room for the past two days, refusing food and water, when the dwarf had come inside holding both on a silver platter, along with a rucksack filled with supplies.

It made her curious enough to let him sit on her bed.

"I have food for three days in this bag. I plan to go hunting with the bannermen, you see? I've also packed spare clothes, men's clothes. They're cousin Lancel's, not mine, so they would be Jaime's size, wouldn't they be?"

It began to dawn on Cersei what he was hinting at. She blinked, and stared hard at him. He gave her a charming grin, which only made her more suspicious.

"I only came here to give you some food and water personally, since you have been refusing them for so long. Here, have some. If you knock me out when you're done, it would definitely be out of my control. After all, I am just a weak dwarf. The guards aren't there by your door, either. They have too much gold in their pockets to be leaving the brothel anytime soon."

Cersei frowned. "Why are you doing this?"

He smiled, and it was more sensitive this time. She wondered if this was how he always smiled at Jaime. They were always close. "Why am I doing this? Well, it is because you are my sister. I care about you, I don't want you to fall sick without food and water."

He put his hand over hers, and squeezed it. "I do care about you, no matter how you feel about me. What he did to you is not right."

With that, Tyrion hopped off of her bed and offered her the tray, placing his rucksack at her feet.

Cersei huffed, taking the tray from him but refusing to look grateful. "I don't need your help, imp. I was planning on escaping myself anyway."

"Don't use that word, idiot!" Tyrion hissed, but all he managed to get was a disdainful look from his sister, who was busy gorging on the food on the plate. She emptied the flagon of water in one gulp, and put the tray on the bed.

"The guards are gone, who do you think will overhear? Are you hiding something from me, Tyrion?"

Tyrion shook his head. "It wouldn't kill you to take more precautions, Cersei-"

He was cut off by a silver tray connecting with the base of his head, turning all of his thoughts blank. He blinked up at the ceiling, confused. Was he on his back?

He felt his sister's shoe connect with his head, his vision exploding into bright stars for a second. He had no idea why she was being so rough. He thought he was helping her…

But of course, this was Cersei. He decided to stay on his back for the time being, closing his eyes and pretending to be unconscious. It would not do to wake up before she left. He was trying to help her, after all.

Cersei smiled at the unconscious dwarf at the foot of her bed as she pulled on her trousers under her nightdress, untying the unwieldy thing and throwing it over the dwarf's face to prevent him from seeing her undressed. She shrugged on the tunic and coat stuffed in the rucksack, surveying its contents briefly as she did. There was enough food and water for a fair bit of time on the streets. There was also a purse of gold, she spied, fat and juicy, ready to be spent.

She smiled affectionately at her brother. No doubt he was doing this because of her resemblance to Jaime. The two brothers had always been close.

Before she could think twice about her decision, Cersei stole out of her room for the first time in two days.

...

A/N: Poor Tyrion always tries his best to do the right thing. Anyway, thanks for all the guest reviews! I try to reply to everyone but I can't reply to the guests for obvious reasons, so here is your thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Officially, the climax of the story! Worked hard to show Cersei's mounting desperation in this one. Hope you like it!

Chapter 6

She had made it out of the stronghold easily, using the cook's exit. She had escaped with Jaime using this route many times. It was only a short walk to the forest from here. She even passed the rock that the siblings had made love on three years ago, back when they were first discovering each other.

She made herself blush, before she reminded herself that she could not be blushing when she was out on her own. She was Jaime now, and she had to borrow from his swaggering, chivalrous personality to survive.

She was now in an Inn quite close to Casterly Rock, a nasty place full of fat drunks and hedge knights. Would Jaime have ever expected her to coexist with these men? She laughed under her breath, deepening it to sound more manly. Her coat was obscuring her curves, helping her look masculine. She had not had the time to tie her hair up, so she had nicked a pair of shears from the stronghold before she left for good. Now her golden hair stuck up around her face in an impish halo, the rest of her hair clogging the drains of Casterly Rock.

A couple of drunkards looked queerly at her. She didn't blame them, of course she looked a bit odd. Young pageboys didn't often venture out alone. To deflect suspicion, she ordered a beer from the barmaid, who was a pretty young girl all of twelve years old. Cersei waited until the girl placed the mug in front of her, then spanked the girl's rear as hard as she could, hooting in as manly a fashion as she could. Several men around her laughed at the barmaid's mortified look, giving her looks that signaled acceptance.

The acceptance gave her a fluttery feeling in her chest. She grinned widely, then chugged her beer down in one gulp, banging the mug down on her table. "Another one!" She yelled out to the barmaid in her rough fake-baritone. The barmaid fluttered around in her threadbare blue dress, taking her mug and refilling it while attempting to stay as far away from Cersei's hand as possible.

Cersei laughed cruelly at this, joined by several men around her. Some others began asking for refills, copying Cersei by spanking the poor girl as payment. Any empathy she felt for the girl was drowned out by…was it pride?

She was proud. She was _fitting in._ Nothing could have made her happier. They believed that she was a man! She let out another laugh and belched loudly.

The Lady of Casterly Rock had quite plainly had too much to drink. She got up from her table and went up to the cowering barmaid. "Where are the rooms? I need a place to sleep."

The barmaid gulped. "You have to pay my father first, ser."

Cersei shrugged. "Sure." She dug through her pack to find Tyrion's money-purse. The last time she had seen it, it had been bulging with gold, she would have no problem paying for one night.

It was nowhere to be seen.

Any of the ecstasy remaining from the kinship she had shared with the drunk men disappeared in one panicky flash. That gold was her security. Where would she go without it? How could she travel?

And even more pressingly, _where would she sleep tonight?_

She looked outside, at the darkening forest. It was nearly twilight. Could she manage to get back to Casterly Rock in time? Did she even want to go back? Once she returned, she could definitely never leave again.

The barmaid was her only solution. She grinned at the girl. "How much do the rooms cost?"

The girl nodded warily. "Three coppers each, ser."

The _ser_ sent a chill of pleasure through her. She put her hands in her pocket, smiling disarmingly. "I happen to have misplaced my purse. Where are the rooms, sweetheart?"

The girl blinked. "But ser, if you forgot your purse, how will you pay for your drinks?"

Cersei blinked. That was not what she had planned. "Oh, no, I'll be getting my gold back from a friend tomorrow. I will pay for everything-"

The girl was looking suspiciously at her, now. "I mean it!" Cersei tried fixing the situation. "I mean it, I will pay tomorrow." An idea struck her, her usual way of fixing things. "There are other ways to pay for things, though." She schmoozed, inching closer to the slim girl. The girl's eyes widened in alarm. Not a good sign.

"Father!" She called out. Not a good sign at all. "Father, come _quick!"_

Her heart began to beat faster. She didn't know how to deal with this, she lived in a castle. She never ran out of money. Should she run, now? Should she hide? What was she supposed to do?

A huge hand fell on her shoulder out of nowhere. Was it the father? She looked up apprehensively at the rough, ruddy face of a drunk. Hadn't she seen him sitting at one of the tables, staring at her? Did the barkeep drink at his own bar?

The man's next words cleared out all doubt. "No need to call your father, dear one. She is with us." He tossed a silver coin at the girl. "Call him off, there's no need for a fight."

The girl nodded warily, and Cersei felt the thrill of relief pass through her for all of two seconds before she realised the man called her _she_.

He was taking her to his table, his hand gripping her upper arm like a vice. She looked up at him, at the muscles of his arm. They were the size of her face. There was no way she could fight him off, but she was a Lion of Casterly Rock. She was not going down without a fight.

"Get your hands off of me." She commanded, her voice sounding nervously high and ever so female. "Get away from me!"

The man laughed a barrel-laugh. "Aren't you going to thank us? We saved you from quite a fate there. Didn't we, boys?" She looked back at the table, at the crowd of drunken men leering at her. She was fooling nobody with her boyish clothes and short hair. One man licked his lips. "What is a pretty girl like you dressing up like a little boy for?" The drunk pushed her further towards the table. One man reached out as if to pat her shorn head.

Cersei started becoming angry. "Get your filthy hands off of me. I am Lady of Casterly Rock."

The laughter of the table stilled for a minute. Cersei straightened proudly. Who did they think they were fooling around with?

The drunk holding her arm loosened his grip. "Will you have our heads on a spike, milady?"

She attempted to pull her arm from his hands, but failed, even with the loose hold. "If you don't let me go, yes. I will."

The entire table suddenly burst into hooting laughter.

Cersei's stomach sank. "Our heads on spikes, eh? Good! Let's have some fun before that happens, shall we, boys?" The man holding her arm suddenly lifted her up onto the table and held her down by the chest. She screamed and scratched at them, biting one man who came too close to her mouth.

"Lady of Casterly Rock, you say? They do say lordlings taste sweeter than the rest of us."

Suddenly, a shadow loomed over the laughing men. Cersei stared at the man as she screamed. Was he one of them? Was he going to hurt her? She would have no chance against him.

She screamed as she struggled in their grip, trying not to think about what they were about to do. "Don't you dare! I will tell my father, I will tell him everything!"

"You definitely will, my lady." The voice came from the shadow behind the throng, a familiar voice. Before she could comprehend it, the head of the man holding her down split in two.

Blood spattered everywhere. She gasped as it splashed onto her face, drenching her. The man fell to the side as the knight standing behind him swung his sword at the nearest drunkards, cutting them down as they sat. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her meagre lunch with Tyrion turning in her stomach.

A good many things made her want to throw up. The blood, the dead men around her, what they had wanted to do to her, what they had already been doing to her, the idea that the knight rescuing her might want to do the same.

She peeked from under her eyelashes at the knight standing in front of her, dripping blood from his red armour. He took off his helmet, revealing a stout jaw and piercingly cold eyes.

Ilyn Payne. Her father's right hand man.

He would be taking her back to Casterly Rock. He would present her to her father, with her short hair and her boy's clothes, and tell him what she had almost let those dead men do.

She leaned across the table she was lying on and vomited onto the bloody lap of a dead man.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hey, guys! It has come to my attention that the Hound is, in fact, younger than Cersei. I'll be editing that part, thanks for the vigilance, guest reviewer! Anyway, here's your tiny but plot-conclusive chapter!

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Chapter 7

The next few weeks were strange, but Cersei had expected that.

She was not surprised when she was locked in her room.

She was not surprised when Tyrion was banned from communicating with her again.

She was not surprised when her engagement with Rhaegar Targaryen was dropped. The man was marrying the plain, honest Elia Martell in her place. That made her laugh, at least. Elia Martell was the furthest thing from her, it was as if they were making sure no mishaps like Cersei would happen again.

She was not surprised when Tywin Lannister, the disgraced Warden of the West and Hand of the King, decided that the best way for her to repent would be to have her get married to the first suitor who crossed their path.

And who better than Jon Arryn, the sixty-year-old widower with no children and a grand House to his name?

Cersei had expected Tywin to exact his revenge on her, but she hadn't expected to be holding a soft white hand on the altar, a blue cape draped over her shoulders, the sigil of Arryn stamped upon them like a seal on property as she was dragged from her home, her shorn hair covered up by a red felt cap.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Oh, jeez, I'm sorry for the last chapter XD I didn't think you guys would think it was over or something. Next chapter is the last one, a kind of epilogue.

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Chapter 8

Never in her life had she expected to be married to Jon Arryn.

The man was older than her father. He was duller than anyone she had ever known, and she had had to share a bed with him. He was doing to her what all those men had wanted to do, in that inn on the fateful day when her whole life fell apart.

She blamed Tyrion. It was all his fault. Maybe that had been by design, maybe he wanted the lordship of Casterly Rock firmly in his hands. If that had been his plan, it worked very well, and there was nothing the disgraced daughter of Tywin Lannister could do about it. She could only wait, and bide her time. Cersei was not one to take her blows lying down.

Jon Arryn left her alone most of the time, which was a blessing in disguise. The last thing she needed was to grow fond of him. How could she murder someone she liked? And she had to murder him, or else he would be the one to take Casterly Rock when Tyrion died of mysterious circumstances.

Yes, it was nice to dream.

Cersei found her refuge in these dreams, as she waited in her long silk dresses by the window, staring at the wards of Arryn practicing their swordsmanship in the tiny practice yard of the Eyrie.

There were other dreams of course, dreams that involved weaponry and war-cries, armour and her fate in her own hands. She did not dare to dream those for long, though. The last thing she needed was to be distracted from her goals. Her goals were not freedom, anymore. They were revenge. She only needed to wait until the opportunity presented itself to her.

The wards of Arryn, the rough, callous Stark boy and the swaggering, handsome Baratheon, were sparring in the yard. Cersei contemplated the two. Ned and Robert, so dissimilar in natures and yet such good friends. It was a pity what was going to happen to them.

Despite her relative solitude, Cersei was never one to stay out of gossip. Even in her brief exile period in the month after Jaime died, she had maids update her on all the latest news from around the castle, while simultaneously admonishing the women on indulging in idle gossip. Blatant hypocrisy came naturally to her, and she would have it no other way.

The latest rumours around the castle, about the growing insanity of Aerys II Targaryen, the impropriety of Prince Rhaegar and the fiery death of Ned Stark's father did not bode well for the naïve wards. She was glad, not for the first time, that she had not married Rhaegar. She would not react well to being abandoned for a younger girl, especially if said girl was the wild and vicious Lyanna Stark.

She wondered if Robert knew that his betrothed had run away with a Targaryen Prince. She wondered if Ned knew that his father had marched to King's Landing the minute he heard about the girl's behavior, and demanded that she be returned to him by an apologetic prince.

She knew for certain that they did not know how the venture ended, or they would not be sparring casually there, bickering and laughing like the teenagers that they were.

Sixteen-year-old Cersei Arryn sighed as she stared up into the clouds. The official letter had not come in yet, all of her information came from the servants that populated the place like rats under a wall. Once the letter came, the boys would suit up in armour to avenge the fallen, the burnt Stark lord. Their innocent sparring would be gone, they would pick up real swords and real shields and march up to King's Landing to cut off the Mad King's head.

And she would join them.

She had a new plan, one that promised revenge with canines bared. Her father would never support a rebellion, which meant that if she disguised herself and joined the army, she would be pitted against him, and against Tyrion. She would probably die, of course, but that hardly mattered to her anymore. What did she have to live for, anyway? Her brother was dead, her freedom was in the hands of a man she would likely have to murder to get rid of, and she had nobody who cared about her happiness. She would rather die with a sword in hand than on the ground under a high tower.

It was a few days until the messenger arrived with the news. Cersei was in the Great Hall of the Eyrie, in her silky red dress, when the messenger read out his parchment to Jon. She had to hide her grin, it was better than she had expected. Aerys was not only demanding for Robert Baratheon to bend the knee to him at King's Landing, he was also openly demanding for Ned Stark's head. If that wasn't enough, the Mad King had included a gory description of Ned's father's death in the comprehensive letter. The man had been cooked to death in his own armour with his son watching. The boy, Ned's oldest brother, was then strangled. It could not get better for the young woman. There was no question of peaceful surrender, there was definitely going to be a rebellion. She had hidden armour and weaponry in her bedroom, having charmed it away from a guard. Cersei was a lot of things, but nobody could say she wasn't resourceful.

Jon Arryn looked infinitely wearied, but Cersei knew he loved the two boys. Ned looked frightened out of his mind, and enraged on his late father's behalf. Robert looked positively rabid.

"There is no way we are surrendering to this! We will not give Ned up, Jon. We will avenge his parents! I will call my banners. This is war!" The young man shouted, his blue eyes shining with anticipation of the joy of battle. Cersei had been right about the man, he was not one for peace. He wanted blood and glory. He was one with Cersei in that regard.

Arryn was a man of peace, of stagnation. He rubbed his face, then looked up. She had no doubt he would agree with Robert, if only to save Ned's life. The only thing to do now was to join with the troops when they march. She would have to be vigilant, now. She could not be left behind.

"You are right, Robert. This, this is war. Call the banners. We will march to King's Landing and cut off the Mad King's head!" The people of the court cheered, Robert most of all. Cersei was already gone, though. She was in her room, preparing her armour. If her instincts were right, they would march at dawn, and she could not afford to be late.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Finally, the last chapter is here! Thank you for all the reviews and criticism, it was a lot of fun writing this story.

Chapter 9

The next morning, she was dressed all in cheap tin armour, chopping her shoulder-length hair into a short bob, when Jon Arryn came to say goodbye.

She blinked up at him, her helmet on her lap, blanket around her shoulders catching the scattering of blond hair. Her sword sat gleaming on her bed, she had polished it with oil just the night before. Her armour was just a little too big, but she could walk in it, and more than swing a sword. That was all she really needed, wasn't it? All she wanted was to meet her brother in battle and cut off his oversized head, watch it roll under the battling soldiers and wait for her own death. She had no other purpose in life.

Perhaps, if she hadn't spent so much time daydreaming about her brother's death, she would have accounted for the fact that Jon Arryn would want to say goodbye to his wife before he marched off to certain death.

Jon Arryn was dressed in fine silver armour, a blue bird stamped on the breastplate, his helmet under his arm. He looked distinguished, a proper gentleman, but too old, too old. He would be around sixty years old now. In ten years, when Cersei was in the prime of her youth, his muscles would have begun to disintegrate, and she would be the bride of an old man.

She tried to stay as still as possible as the old man studied her warily.

"What are you doing?" He began, but she let him continue no further.

"You will not be able to stop me. If you lock me in here, even if you chain me in the dungeons, I will escape. I will fight for Stark if it is the last thing I do."

He looked so tired, in that moment, and sat beside her on her bed. She tried not to flinch.

He rubbed his hand over his face, as he was used to doing when he was frustrated. He looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were green. Startlingly green, and bright. He was an intelligent man, and in his prime he may have been very attractive.

He studied her. She leaned back, fiddling with the helmet in her lap. He did not have the power to stop her. She would rather die than continue to be the disgraced Arryn bride.

"If you stop me, I will kill myself."

She held her breath, waiting for his reaction, and was surprised when all he did was nod soberly.

"I know. Your father told me all about you, child. I know."

She tried to reconcile with the idea that he wasn't locking her away in the cell at that very minute.

He smiled at her, and it was a kind smile.

"We need every soldier possible for our war, Cersei. I would be honoured if you joined us."

A blank look. Was it shock that kept her still as a statue, unable to express her profound gratitude? Was it horror, ecstasy?

Arryn grinned, and she suddenly, desperately wished he had been her father. "You will have to remain in disguise, though. I do not wish to have my honour tarnished, you see." But the words were said in good humour, with a smile and an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

Jon Arryn left the room, and Cersei wiped her damp cheeks. She let out a choked laugh. She could never murder him now. She let herself laugh longer, as the tears rolled down her cheeks and her helmet was gripped with white fingers.

She could fight, now. She could fight and die on her own terms. She could take her fate into her own hands.

It was freedom she was tasting. She never thought she could taste it again.

She put the helmet on over her head and picked up her sword, staring at it as she swung it carefully around. She was never very good at swordfighting. Archery was more her style. Maybe she could ask Arryn if she could take up the bow and arrow instead.

He would probably agree. She let herself smile widely. He would probably let her do as she pleased.

She grinned, staring down at her sword.

It didn't matter if he allowed her to or not. She knew she could manage just fine with a sword. After all, Jaime had been a swordfighter, and he had come into the world holding her foot. She was always a step ahead of him.

It didn't matter what the world allowed her to do, she could manage herself just fine.

The End.


End file.
